Cause and Effect

We’ve had some recent excitement at our house. There was a gas leak and Pacific Gas & Electric had trucks out front late into the night. At one point I woke up and could hear them still drilling into the street to stop the leak. I could definitely smell gas. Expressions like “Shelter in Place” and “Evacuation” crept into my sleepy thoughts. We awoke to a bright, sunny morning and no large trucks were blocking the driveway. I told Eric I’d had thoughts of being forced to flee from the gas in our bathrobes, carrying our finch, Coco Chanel, in his huge cage. We laughed at the image, but then I realized Coco was not singing his usual morning songs. I went downstairs to get second cups of coffee and checked on him.

Coco was in severe distress. He was slipping off the top of his house and dangling between it and the side of the cage. His little heart was pumping wildly and he slumped forward closing his eyes. I called for Eric with such fear that I woke Allie up. There was still a lingering gas odor. Eric had the presence of mind to take Coco’s cage upstairs and put it by an open window. He perked up and let out a couple little cheeps. His heart rate seemed slower and he opened his tiny eyes. Oh, thank god, Coco was starting to revive in the fresh air. Breathe. Exhale.

Order restored, we let ourselves think about the gas and PG&E and how thankful we were that they repaired the gas line, but became disgruntled that so much gas was released in the process. There had to have been a mistake and if there was, why weren’t we notified so we could be safe? We decided to call PG & E and inform them that they had almost killed our precious bird. Before that plan could come to fruition we checked on the little guy again.

Coco was NOT fine. We realized he was stuck to the top of his house because his ankle band had a twig jammed into it and he couldn’t move. Commence Operation ROF (rescue our finch) number two. Since the bird is less afraid of me, Eric determined I should put my hand in the cage and gently slide him off the twig. A finch is not a parakeet. They’re so tiny and you can’t just hold them. I thought we should get help. I wanted to take him to Wild Care, the bird rescue professionals so they could give a mini tranquilizer dart and unhook the poor little guy. Eric scoffed at that idea and insisted that we do the rescue.

Wearing white cotton gloves, I reached in and tried to put my hand around him. Panicking and fluttering like crazy, he bit the glove and would not unclench. I freaked out, so afraid that I’d hurt him and snap his leg off. It may have to do with the time I was trimming the fur on Lucy’s bunny, Flopsy, and cut her tail. Talk about sickening. We rushed her to the vet where they applied special bone healing glue. I couldn’t stomach the bird rescue, so Eric took over, once Coco unclenched the glove and I could get my hand out of the cage. Somehow, Eric freed him with tweezers and Coco could fly once again.

No longer a victim of gas poisoning, our erstwhile canary in a coal mine had created his own fate. He hasn’t been this naughty since he escaped when I cleaned his cage and it took me six hours (and Lana’s help AND the purchase of a fish net) to catch him. How can a little creature get into so much mischief? In fifteen years my other finches never did anything but eat, cheep, sleep and keel over. Not Coco. He has to keep things exciting. The drama prompted some introspection on cause and effect. What are the chances that the bird would be stuck at the same time as the leak? We were so sure he’d been gassed but it was utterly unrelated to his condition. What else are we assuming that may be untrue?

Invention is the Mother of Necessity

Tall, decaf mocha, no fat, no whip, one forty. The older woman with two small children in line in front of me spat out her order. Really? That’s all you want to specify? Why have I never thought to tell them precisely what temperature I’d like my drink to be? Is one forty hot or not so hot? How come I don’t know this? Forget the temperature issue for a moment. What is a mocha with no fat, no whip and no caffeine? It reminds me of the anecdote in an old Herb Caen column. Someone goes into a coffee house and orders a non fat, decaf latte. The cashier yells to the barista, “One why bother.”

Is necessity the mother of invention, or is it now the other way around? That’s my question. This if you build it they will come mind set is the new norm. We have so many choices that it’s almost paralyzing. Are they really choices? We are sold so many products we do not need. Do we want them or did the choice come first and then the need? Early adopters, we’re scanning the horizon for the new and shiny. Out with the Kindle, in with Apple’s iPad and when the next generation is created, we’ll have to buy that as well.

We could probably get it at Costco, but big box shopping is not for me. I’d rather pay more. Yes, you save on essentials, but how do you calculate the cost of the impulse buying? Besides, who really needs a year’s supply of toilet paper? I’d rather run out on Christmas Day like we usually do. Then you get to call one of the kids and get your revenge by making them bring some. I tried warehouse shopping a time or two in the last century. I bought some office supplies and got a package of pens so large that I STILL have some of them. Of course, you can never find one when you want it.

Is there any way to escape the jackhammer of advertising that has crept into seemingly every aspect of daily life? Our quality of life is being eroded one commercial at a time. We went to a movie and paid over ten bucks a ticket. Our viewing “pleasure” included watching numerous previews (which are ads) as well as actual commercials. Why are we even subjected to television commercials at all? When we were kids we just plugged in the T.V. and turned it on. It was free. We did not pay for it, so it seemed reasonable that there would be commercials to bring in revenue. We pay for televison programming now. We pay a lot for something called “cable”. Revenue is being generated on a grand scale. Other than our mortgage, the cable bill with bundled telephone service, is our largest monthly bill. We don’t even have all the options. Feeding all the channels into every television would be an up charge.

Television itself is way too complicated now. One night Eric came home from a walk in the neighborhood and announced that Blue Pants Man had a flat screen and we are the only people left in the universe who don’t have one. Blue Pants Man is actually now Tan Pants Man and he has some sort of lifestyle (or disability) that allows him to spend his days walking around the neighborhood carrying a walker three inches from the ground. He just carries it. Never sets it down. Blue Pants Man lives in the same house as Babushka Lady who also spends much of her time out walking, occasionally hissing at and spitting on people. The tiny crone with the wizened face and nasty whiskers and Blue Pants Man HAVE A FLAT SCREEN. Exclamation point.

Shocked by this revelation, I catapulted into action. After a little research online I thought I had a grasp of the situation. The next rainy Sunday (aren’t they all this year) we barged over to Best Buy after way too much coffee. I was ready for my own impulse buy. We would get ourselves a flat screen and be like everyone else. We could even host a decent Oscar party. The salesman began to explain the various options. I got a little confused. Trying to decide on pixels and mega pixels gave me a headache. When he started talking about Blu-ray I felt I was being duped into buying a system that would soon be obsolete and this irritated me. It was also a lot of money to spend on a television. The need for a nap overcame the need to buy a flat screen and we were so out of there. I don’t need to make all these decisions about buying electronics. I can use up that part of my brain just by ordering a coffee.

Fit for Tennis

One has to be extraordinarily fit for tennis. The diet, the conditioning- the months of training. No detail is too insignificant to matter when you need to be tops on the tour. The clothing is as important as anything. Timing the meals, snacks, hydration and trips to the rest room are critical. The angle of the sun and the direction of the wind must be factored in. It all matters when you are a world class tournament...spectator.

After the eight hour drive to Palm Springs as our warm up, we decided to relax rather than deal with the weekend hordes at the tournament. We bought our tickets for the Monday matches and were lucky enough to have a chance to watch Novak Djokovic go through his paces at a private club. Truthfully, he looked a little shaky to our trained, professional spectator eyes. Then we practiced forking over the cash when Eric ordered a nine dollar smoothie. My iced tea was a bargain at three bucks with refills. This is a key spectator skill you get to hone to perfection at big tournaments.

There is so much planning, effort and preparation that goes into proper tennis viewing. How to look cute AND be comfortable in the hot sun while watching hours of matches is always a challenge. The linen skirt route is good, but it has to be long enough to prevent sticking to the hot metal bench. Short shorts or skirts are just the worst. This year the crowd seemed so much better dressed. There were some very elegant looking women and dapper gentlemen.

Why do so many of the audience members attend the tournament in tennis attire - even the older crowd? Do they think they will get called to fill in if Nadal or Clijsters don’t show up? No problem. I can take their place. I’m all dressed for it. Or do they think people will mistake them for a pro? A friend observed that you wouldn’t wear a swim suit to a swim meet. Why would you wear a tennis oufit to a tennis match?

The center stadium is the only venue where we had real seats, so fatigue set in after watching hours of matches. The experts bring along their own portable chairs with backs. This year the popular chair looked a bit like a lead apron with straps. As silly as it seems to drag that thing around, it’s incredibly practical. We took little breaks by changing courts and wandered over to the practice courts where we got to see hot players hitting topless. The men, that is. The women wore tiny shorts and little jog bras so it was equal opportunity viewing pleasure. Sometimes we went to the main stadium so we could lean back for a while even when the better match was on an outside court.

Proper breathing is critical. You can exhaust yourself by holding your breath during the exciting rallies. You’re so close you can feel it. It’s very tiring to root for a certain player the whole time. Also, it’s amazing how arbitrary choosing a favorite can be. There is the need to make snap judgments about athletes we’ve never seen by analyzing their body language, attitudes and outfits. Eric went crazy for Chinese player, Jie Zheng. We watched her and her partner, Chang, defeat number one seeds Huber and Black in an amazing match. These two were the fiercest players we’ve ever seen at the net. Two days later Zheng played Caroline Wozniacki in singles. I was rooting for Wozniacki and Eric was pulling for Zheng, calling her the real deal. It was a battle, but my girl was even more real a deal in singles, and won in three. Watching her really drained me.

Nutrition and hydration are very important aspects of tournament play. The desert is just as dry as the name implies. Maybe even more so. We simply could not get enough water even though we were conscientious about it. You can bring your own food or you can take your chances on tournament food. We were pretty good the first couple days and made healthy choices. By day three it was hot dogs and coke. When we were both reaching for the Rolaids, Eric quipped that they might as well embed antacids right into the hot dogs. It would be far more efficient.

By the middle of the week we’d had enough of real time viewing. We needed to regain our strength so we skipped the tourney and watched it on television in the evenings. Playing tennis every morning, swimming and maybe taking a bike ride, we slowly rebuilt the energy we’d expended at the tournament. We had expensive cocktails pool side at a couple trendy hotels and did a little hiking. It wasn’t easy, but for the last several days, we were finally able to recover from the rigors of professional tennis.

Thawing Out

So many friends reached out to me after my first pathetic post on the frozen shoulder. I really appreciated all the support and suggestions. Who knew this nasty malady is so common? I’d never heard of it before. Progress has been slow but measurable. I started seeing the physical therapist who helped Eric after his accident. Of course, we’re paying for it privately, but I’m worth it, aren’t I? Jeff Smith is a tennis player and former dancer who practices a combination of Feldenkrais and weight training and is just a genius at getting hurt parts of the body to move again.

I’ve got a lot of atrophy and my friend says I still look like John McCain when I raise my left arm, but the range of motion is returning ever so slowly. It no longer hurts to start the lawn mower by pulling on the cord. Since mowing the lawn is one of my favorite ways to relax, this is very good. Sleeping is a bit better. I can now go four or five hours before the tossing and turning and trying to get comfortable begins. Ironically, after seeing two general practitioners, one orthopedist, two physical therapists, getting a set of x-rays, an MRI and an injection of cortisone, it may be that time is the real cure. The doctor said to give it a year and it’s been five months. Fortunately, I’m one hundred percent cured of injury envy. It’s not as fun as it looks to be the patient and it’s beyond boring to talk about. We can all go back to complaining about the weather.

Frozen Shoulder in Winter

Following the philosophy that if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all, has caused me to be virtually mute. I’ve got an injury that is extremely painful and it’s making me cranky and cynical. Oh, that’s right. I already was cranky and cynical. Now I’ve just lost the governor. On my better days I spin it as observant, sensitive and maybe a little prescient. Now I’ve had so many months of pain and interrupted sleep I think we’ve crossed into grouchy territory. Fair warning here. Further reading may cause unpleasant side effects.

I’ve never been hurt before. I’ve had two C-sections, leg surgery, ear surgery and a tonsillectomy after which I hemorrhaged and nearly bled to death. In every instance I healed in less than half the time it’s taken me to get an affirmative diagnosis on this condition. Other than a bike accident in fourth grade, which caused a mild concussion, I have been injury free. No broken bones or tears or sprains or strains. Until now, I’ve been extremely lucky as well as cautious. Visiting an orthopedist and getting an MRI were both new experiences for me. After being mis-diagnosed with tendinitis and a muscle tear, I finally found the right doctor who told me I have Adhesive Capsulitis - also known as frozen shoulder.

You know the television commercial where the woman says that she nearly cried when they told her that her house had termites? When I went online and read about my condition I nearly cried and then I really cried. It’s got some strange manifestations. The worst of these are taking up to three YEARS to heal and being so painful at night that chronic loss of sleep can become a secondary condition. I’m here to tell you, folks, we’re there. The bright side is that it’s my left shoulder and I’m a rightie so tennis is fine. The scary part is that I cannot lift my left arm high enough to shave my armpit.

I tend to imagine worst-case scenarios for myself, but overall, I’ve really been quite healthy. During the rare times I’ve been out of commission as a wife or a mother it’s been met with skepticism. In labor with Allie, about five centimeters dilated, I took a bath to relax before leaving for the hospital. Lucy came in to pester me and then wanted to know why I was so grouchy. I can’t recall my exact thought at the time but I was probably wondering why I was having another child.

I was also accused of being dramatic when I came down with bacterial pneumonia and the kids wanted to know why wouldn’t I get off the couch and make them sandwiches. The doctor had me on three different antibiotics to cover all the bases but the kid’s jut wanted their snacks. The healthy, able-bodied - old enough to get their own food kids. They really didn’t understand that pneumonia could be deadly. Just think of poor Jim Henson. I forgive them now because they’ve been incredibly sweet and kind about my shoulder.

Husbands seem to be better at milking these situations without looking like they are. Somehow they are just more entitled. When the girls were about ten, six and two I encouraged their father to get a vasectomy. He rebutted my campaign with various well thought out arguments. One of the reasons he gave me for resisting is that if I were to die and he were to remarry he’d want the option to have more children with the new wife. WHAT? The wants and needs of the erstwhile widower and his possible future wife trumped my needs and me? He was saying this to a woman who’d given birth to three kids. After my shock subsided I continued to drip, like water on a stone, and he finally caved but boy did I pay for it.

The surgery was scheduled on a Friday morning shortly before Christmas. My stepmother, who can be a little high maintenance, was visiting. We gave her our bedroom and slept on the pull out in the living room. It just so happened to be the weekend we needed to get the tree and put it up. Supervision from the couch abounded but no help was forthcoming from that quarter. The doctor had advised the patient to remain immobile for forty-eight hours and the patient was not about to take any chances with his precious parts. Not only did he stay on the couch the entire weekend, we were also to run and fetch bags of ice for his you know what. Monday morning he was fine and went off to work, as usual.

With Eric it’s been a little different. Since he had a bad accident and follow up surgeries, he needed a tremendous amount of care. He was a good patient and I was happy to oblige. The hard part was hearing about the accident. Men, in particular, have a morbid fascination with the details of a motorcycle accident and for a while I would have to just remove myself when the conversation went that way. My nerves started to fray after the complications from the later abdominal surgery but I really became undone when the plantar fascia ruptured. More long conversations about the malady making me feel a bit left out since I was the healthy one.

Now I’m NOT the healthy one and there seems to be no protracted discussion of it. I’ll mention what’s wrong and people seem to quickly move to another topic. I have no experience with this. Am I doing it incorrectly? Maybe I need some props, although I’ve gone through the sling and ace bandage. It’s not so much that I want to talk about it. It’s that I feel so bad and want to get better.

It’s a bit like when Lucy was six weeks old. She’d been waking up every hour or so throughout the night since birth and I was just about to go crazy from lack of sleep. Now, every time I fall asleep I wake up a couple hours later because my shoulder hurts. I can’t get comfortable. I’ve tried multiple combinations of sleep aids and pain relievers. Ambien works best to keep me asleep but it’s not a great choice long term. Maybe I’ll just have to deal with the consequences when the pain gets better. Rehab in the wine country sounds appealing.

I love my doctor and am starting physical therapy. I love that my doctor recognizes that the PT paid for by my insurance company is woefully inadequate. When we discussed the options he asked me if I’m incredibly wealthy. Um, no. If I were, he’d have some great suggestions for me. He realizes I need help. I can’t just be given some exercises to do at home. It hurts too much to do them on my own. He’ll go to bat for me with the insurance company if they don’t give me what I need. That’s promising. Now, if it will just stop raining for more than one day at a time and Eric’s persistent, hacking cough will subside, we may be getting somewhere.

Now And Then

I spent a little time away from real estate in 2009. I felt fortunate that none of my clients needed to sell at such a low point in the market - thus locking in their losses in value. There wasn’t that much to do. It seemed silly to run around looking at property when I had no buyers. I put my toe in the short sale, foreclosure market and pulled it right back out again. It’s ugly out there.

When I started in real estate in the late nineties it was all anyone wanted to talk about. Every cocktail party, school event and athletic competition was a command performance. You needed to know the details of every sale in town. How many offers, how much above asking? How much had the sellers profited? Wide eyed with greed, homeowners tracked the market like sharks in a feeding frenzy. In those days I had five buyers at one time who all wanted to find a livable house in our town for less than three quarters of a million dollars. So did all the other agents. There were very few and not nearly enough for the demand.

I have had several clients who were relocating from other, less expensive areas. That first trip out, showing homes in their stated price range, is a shock to the system. Sticker shock. Expectations go down and price ranges go up and I get to use the expression that I save for these occasions. You’re not just buying a house. You’re buying a lifestyle. It’s not bullshit. It’s true. We have great weather, fantastic recreational opportunities and a short commute to the city. Unfortunately, you have to decide whether you want to live in a flood, mud slide or wildfire zone. There are very few homes here that don’t fit one of those descriptions.

Since I’ve jumped back in with a listing and buyers and meetings and broker tours and open houses, I’ve noticed something. People are a LOT nicer now. Listing agents will actually acknowledge you when you enter a house they’re holding open. I’m with a different, very user-friendly company and the other agents make a point of introducing themselves to me. It’s quite a change from the glory days when properties sold themselves and the imperious agent would hand out the Seller Wish List with instructions. Offers Tuesday at five, by fax only. If you were lucky you were given a lovely document called Multiple Invitation to Resubmit - meaning you (and all the other buyers) were getting a chance to make your offer better and be considered again.

It was so frustrating for buyers to be shopping for something and not know what it cost. The price wasn’t the price. It was just a starting point for the negotiations and the negotiations were not tilted toward the buyer. You stood an excellent chance if you were willing to bid one hundred thousand over asking and waive all contingencies. You’d have to show properties to buyers that were considerably below their price because it was assumed that the price would be bid up out of their pre-approved range. I even made an offer one time that said the buyers would pay ten thousand dollars more than any other legitimate offer. It too, was turned down because the listing agent felt it wasn’t a “real price.”

One wonderful buyer had a great thought on the subject. He said that buying a house was like trying to find a dress that both of you could wear, but they weren’t all gathered in one place. You had to go all over town to try them on. At one point he and his wife were so frustrated by the process that they started fighting in French at one of the many houses I showed them. I left for a little while until they’d calmed down. Ironically, on the day that they finally found the house they would buy, he was wearing a dress. A kilt.

For a long time listing agents could get away with murder. The market was doing all their work for them. They only had to do the bare minimum. There are some really good agents out there, but there are so many lazy, bad ones. Sometimes an agent wouldn’t even bother to respond to an offer. A written purchase contract with all the anguish over price, terms, conditions, and loan pre-approval that it implies. Not even a call to say they’d taken another offer. I once found out my buyers didn’t get the house because the day after we presented the offer I saw the status was changed on the computer.

There is a local agent who was representing a gay couple. My buyers were in contract on the house and we were going through negotiations about repair items. The men, who had been incredible contributors to the community, were selling the house because one of them was dying of cancer and they needed to simplify their lives. Their agent said something to me like. “Oh you know how it is with these old fags, just sitting there counting their money and taking it ...” Excuse me? Fortunately this paragon of fiduciary duty had a business partner (a gay man, mind you) and I only dealt with him for the remainder of the transaction. And yes, this wonderful woman is still doing business in our town.

Lately I’ve been thinking about a family I represented in 2002. They had rented their condo in a low income area for fourteen years when it went on the market. The guy was a painter and the contractor he worked for was a client of mine who called and asked if I could help out. Somehow, we put a deal together and they were able to buy their place. They didn’t speak English and everything had to be translated, but I knew I liked them and I was happy to be part of the process. It was the American dream. I’ve often wondered how they fared in this economy and now I know. They didn’t. I looked their property up on the tax records and their place was sold by the bank in December for less than half what they paid for it. They just couldn’t hang on.

The sad thing about today’s market is that much of the action is in the low end, short sale and foreclosure niche. The prices have gotten so low now that properties are selling for half of what they were purchased for and there is another feeding frenzy. It’s depressing to look at homes that people have abandoned or been forced from, but if you can stomach it there are some real deals. And multiple offers and properties going for over asking AND agents who can’t be bothered to respond to an offer. It’s common to see a remark in the description warning that the property probably won’t qualify for any type of loan. Cash has always been King, but now it’s Queen and Jack too and not just on the low end. One of our local movie stars is getting divorced and just sold his house for eight million. Cash. It must have been a little disappointing because he was asking ten.

Yoga Pants

When did mommies stop looking like mommies? When did grandma stop looking like grandma? I pass the grade school where my kids went and I don’t recognize the women. It’s not just that I don’t know them, which I don’t. It’s that they don’t look familiar to me. There is a uniformity to their look or more correctly - a uniform.

Tall, “blonde” and almost too thin, if that’s possible. It’s possible. Add platinum wedding bands, a huge engagement diamond, either Uggs or flip flops (in any weather), a $75 tee shirt and $200 yoga pants. A down vest maybe. Yoga pants worn as day wear - not just for exercising. You have to have a great body to look good in yoga pants. They are most unforgiving, so wear if you dare.

These women obviously take a lot of time getting their bodies into incredible shape. You’d think they might want to show it off in something else for a change. Linen and cashmere come to mind. Or a slim summer sheath with pearls. A few years ago I sold a multi-million dollar house to a woman after showing her over a hundred properties. She was always dressed like she was on her way to the gym. Never was she dressed in regular clothing. Not once. This is not classic style. This is not Mad Men. This is the look of new money.

I am not one for running around in exercise attire. I don’t want to look like all I’ve been doing is playing tennis even if all I’ve been doing is playing tennis. It’s sweaty and clammy and looks like you have yet to start your real day - with real clothes. I change into tennis clothes right before I play and out of them right afterwards. It’s rare that I’ll be caught in the market, or god forbid, a restaurant in exercise clothes. Eric doesn’t understand this. He gets up on weekend mornings and always puts on shorts which can be used for swimming, hiking, lounging or playing tennis. If it’s cold he puts long pants on top of the shorts. He’s constantly prepared for whatever activity might break out. At first he thought we could go straight from the courts to eat dinner somewhere. Now he knows that unless we’re just picking up burritos, I’ll want to change.

I was no fashion maven when my girls were little, but I had an excuse. It was the eighties. Yes, those eighties. At the time I wasn’t aware that I looked like a complete dork, but the photos do not lie. Did I really wear big, red plastic earrings? Why? The hair got a little scary. There was the pixie (a.k.a. the rooster) in l983, the shoulder length perm in ‘85. Then came the mullet with bleached tips- a continuous source of amusement for my daughters. They salivated as they dismembered the photo albums to commemorate my fiftieth. They’re already planning an evil slide show for their father’s sixtieth. Think Speedo.

The hair remains a problem. I get tired of the same old straight, blonde hair, and yes, blondes do have more fun. Thanks for asking. It’s just been such a nasty trip every time I’ve veered into another style . I don’t look good in pixies, perms, mullets or bobs. I stay with this look to save myself from a wild impulse that could be very unfortunate. When I really NEED a change I rearrange the furniture until the obsession passes. These days, without Nicole, I wouldn’t really be blonde at all. I’d be dishwater and gray, but that’s our little secret.

One thinks back and remembers their children looking so adorable. One looks at the photos and sees some major fashion misses. Lucy was all about comfort and ease, not style, until the Guess jeans. When she was around six or seven she was so gangly with such a tiny butt that we couldn’t find any jeans that fit her. Somehow she discovered Guess jeans with zippers on the ankles. They seemed really expensive to me, but she just had to have them and they were really cute on her. Better than some of her matching sweat suits. Lana had her velvet overalls and the hideous, teal green matching warm-up suit that she wore with red Mary Janes. She looked like a small golfer with party shoes on. Allie’s outfits were always the most outrageous concoction of colors and accessories. We were constantly being stopped in stores - even when she was two and three years old and people would comment on her ensembles. I would assure them I had nothing to do with choosing her clothes. I still think she could have a career in the fashion business.

How many times have you seen a woman from the back you assumed to be a teenager, only to be shocked by her actual age when she turned around? Like sixty or seventy but wearing high heeled boots and ultra trendy, expensive jeans. It’s getting so confusing. So many women are getting the little injections into their lips and eyes that it’s hard to tell anyone’s real age. And when did the young daddies get so hot? Hot, if you like mud-splattered, spandex covered sweaty men with numerous logos. Men who have fanned out across the county and taken over every hill and dale, bike rack and coffee house. It would be surprising to see a well-dressed guy strolling through town on a Saturday afternoon - a guy in chinos and loafers. It would be a pleasant surprise. I could go on and on but I have to go out now and I need to figure out what to wear...